


One Toke Over the Line

by KitsJay



Category: Jack Kerouac RPF, Literary RPF
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, RPF, didn't happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 06:46:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitsJay/pseuds/KitsJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His blood feels soft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Toke Over the Line

Allen brought the pot and taught Jack, who was already three steps away from falling off the bridge, to roll a joint with clumsy fingers. Neal watched tolerantly, even helped out, putting his arms around Jack's body and covering his hands to teach him the elegant gestures needed. Jack laughed and stumbled, sending Neal and him both reeling to the ground. Allen's mouth was a sharp edge, thin and barely tolerant, and his eyes flickered to the water and the rails and back to Neal's arms around Jack's again. He took another hit, inhaling and coughing as it scraped down the sides of his lungs.

"Jack," Neal mouthed against the curve of Jack's ear. Jack leaned back against him, his head lolling onto Neal's shoulder and tiny gusts of breath brushing against Neal's skin. They felt the same as the breeze dodging through the spaces in the guardrails of the bridge. "Jacky," he repeated, letting his lips catch beneath Jack's earlobe, where his jawline began.

"What?" Jack said, leaning back completely until his back was pressed firmly against Neal's chest, and one arm was clutching and squeezing Neal's thigh distractingly. Neal would have taken it personally, and could feel himself reacting, but everyone knew pot was better than a box of candy and two dozen roses when it came to romance. Especially since Jack had hit upon a combination of Jack Daniels and more than a few hits on the joint they passed around.

Neal let his hand travel down Jack's side, his thumb finally resting on the butterfly curve of his ribcage, holding him there and breathing in the scent of the sun in the winter and bright, brilliant spruce trees that rose up until their limbs broke through the sky and the fresh smell of the first sap that seeped through the cracks in the bark and collected in a sticky molasses at the bottom roots. He bent his head to catch more of it and memorize it, like a pattern inside his head made up of sensation.

"You're stoned," he murmured, nudging his nose into the curve of Jack's shoulder. Jack let his head fall back and his eyes rolled languidly towards Neal. 

"Hell, yeah, I am. It's--" He struggled to sit upright. "It's like mellow grew fingertips and is stretching them all through me. My blood feels soft." He stopped, then made a soft, throaty sound that may have been a snort of laughter. "I hope you're as stoned as I am, Neal."

Neal grinned outright at that, then threw back his head and laughed, exposing all of his teeth. The sound of it rumbled through Jack and into the ground, disappearing somewhere in the air beneath the bridge, suspended above the water ambling to the other side. 

Bill gave them a shrewd look, but Bill always had a shrewd look on his face, a banker's face with cynical shark eyes peering out between the folds that your eyes shied away from as soon as his met yours. Something about him made you look twice though, then three times, just to make sure that you were not imagining things the first two times.

If Jack noticed the silver flashes of unhappiness Allen kept sending his way, he ignored them, but Neal doubted he was noticing much of anything. His breathing slowed until Neal felt a strong urge to put two of his fingers on Jack's lower lip, to feel the breath gust over them. He had never resisted a temptation before, and cupped Jack's face in his hand before resting his index and middle finger on the precipice of his mouth.

"Jack," he said lowly, sing-song like. "What's air taste like?"

Jack closed his lips over Neal's fingers and sank further down, until just Neal's arm around his chest and the slight touch of his fingers kept Jack from sliding into the ground and falling through.

"Do you two need a moment?" Bill asked sharply, with a bare tinge of amusement. He always sounded sharp, something to do with the way his neck perched forward and stretched thinly around his cords.

"Jacky's just feeling good," Neal said with a crooked smile. 

"Don't call me that," Jack muttered, eyes closing slowly. Neal ignored him.

"Lucien," he said, and Lucien glanced up from where he was talking with Allen in high-strung, fluttering gestures where he used his hands like bird's wings. 

"Yeah?"

"Jack and I are going to my apartment."

"Sure, man, want me to drop you off?" Lucien said with a small smile.

Neal shook his head. "Nah, we'll grab a taxi back."

Neal managed to get Jack standing, and Jack blinked at him and said something about outlines blending into the background, but Neal was more than used to the effect of marijuana and whiskey mixed freely. He had abstained from more than a couple of hits, feeling a coppery tang flow into his arms and legs, making his skin itch and crawl around his bones. The feeling went away if he fucked hard enough or ran hard enough or stood on a railroad iron and shouted to the sky unintellegible war crying slurs, but it was not a good idea to mix drugs with the manic feeling running through him right then.

Allen shot him an accusing look as he left, something Neal did not bother to resent, and he poured Jack and himself into a cab and went home. They stumbled up the stairs together, and Jack collapsed on the inside of his door, listing sideways and looking at Neal through hazy eyes.

"You alright?" Neal asked.

Jack nodded with an uncertain motion. "Are we going to fuck?"

Neal gazed at him seriously, a certain determined mood in his eyes. "No."

If Jack was surprised, the narcotics working the way through his system hid it, and there wasn't a sliver of curiosity in his voice when he asked, "Why not?"

Grabbing a pillow from the bed and tossing it into a corner of the couch, Neal collapsed onto it backwards and stared at the ceiling. 

"Because you need to relax, Jack. You blow me, and you wake up the next morning wondering why I let you, except you know, because I'm me, and I can't help that. I blow you, and you beat yourself up about it and start wandering again." He shifted onto his side, gazing at Jack, who was still propped up against the wall. "So, no, we aren't going to fuck. Not tonight, at least."

"Then why'd you take me back to your place?" Jack sounded confused. 

Neal shook his head and let out a sigh directed at the spider lines in his ceiling.

"Go to sleep, Jack. You'll forget about this in the morning."

The coppery tang reached his head and he could feel it pounding, but he matched it to the sound of Jack breathing and it subsided, just a little bit, just enough to let him slip sideways into sleep.


End file.
